Yorkshire Ditties, Second Series | Page 5

war huntin an' doncin,

Whativer wad come on us all?
Ther's summat beside fun an' frolic
To live for, aw think, if we try;
Th' world owes moor to a honest hard
worker
Nor it does to a rich fly-bi-sky.
Tho' wealth aw acknowledge is
useful,
An' awve oft felt a want on't misen,
Yet th' world withaat brass could
keep movin,
But it wodn't do long withaat men.
One truth they may put i' ther meersham,
An' smoke it--that is if they can;
A man may mak hooshuns o' riches,
But riches can ne'er mak a man.
Then give me that honest hard
worker,
'At labors throo marnin to neet,
Tho' his rest may be little an' seldom,
Yet th' little he gets he finds sweet.
He may rank wi' his wealthier brother,
An' rank heigher, aw fancy, nor some;
For a hand 'at's weel hoofed
wi' hard labor
Is a passport to th' world 'at's to come.
For we know it's a sin to be
idle,
As man's days i' this world are but few;
Then let's all wi' awr lot 'be
contented,
An' continue to toil an' to tew.

For ther's one thing we all may be sure on,
If we each do awr best wol we're here,
'At when, th' time comes for
reckonin, we're called on,
We shall have varry little to fear.
An' at last, when, we throw daan
awr tackle,
An' are biddin farewell to life's stage,
May we hear a voice whisper at
partin,
"Come on, lad! Tha's haddled thi wage;"
Niver Heed.
Let others boast ther bit o' brass,
That's moor nor aw can do;
Aw'm nobbut one o'th' working class,
'At's strugglin to pool throo;
An' if it's little 'at aw get,
It's littie 'at aw need;
An' if sometimes aw'm pinched a bit,
Aw try to niver heed.
Some fowk they tawk o' brokken hearts,
An' mourn ther sorry fate,
Becoss they can't keep sarvent men,
An' dine off silver plate;
Aw think they'd show more gradely wit
To listen to my creed,
An' things they find they cannot get,
Why, try to niver heed.
Ther's some 'at lang for parks an' halls,
An' letters to ther name;
But happiness despises walls,

It's nooan a child o' fame.
A robe may lap a woeful chap,
Whose heart wi grief may bleed,
Wol rags may rest on joyful breast,
Soa hang it! niver heed!
Th' sun shines as breet for me as them,
An' th' meadows smell as sweet,
Th' larks sing as sweetly o'er mi
heead,
An' th' flaars smile at mi feet,
An' when a hard day's wark is done,
Aw ait mi humble feed,
Mi appetite's a relish fun,
Soa hang it, niver heed.
Sing On.
Sing on, tha bonny burd, sing on, sing on;
Aw cannot sing;
A claad hings ovver me, do what aw con
Fresh troubles spring.
Aw wish aw could, like thee, fly far away,

Aw'd leave mi cares an be a burd to-day.
Mi heart war once as full o'
joy as thine,
But nah it's sad;
Aw thowt all th' happiness i'th' world wor mine,
Sich faith aw had;--
But he who promised aw should be his wife

Has robb'd me o' mi ivery joy i' life.
Sing on: tha cannot cheer me wi'
thi song;
Yet, when aw hear
Thi warblin' voice, 'at rings soa sweet an' strong,
Aw feel a tear
Roll daan mi cheek, 'at gives mi heart relief,
A gleam
o' comfort, but it's varry brief.
This little darlin', cuddled to mi breast,

It little knows,
When snoozlin' soa quietly at rest,
'At all mi woes
Are smothered thear, an' mi poor heart ud braik
But
just aw live for mi wee laddie's sake.
Sing on; an' if tha e'er should
chonce to see
That faithless swain,
Whose falsehood has caused all mi misery,
Strike up thy strain,
An' if his heart yet answers to thy trill
Fly back
to me, an' aw will love him still.
But if he heeds thee not, then shall
aw feel
All hope is o'er,
An' he that aw believed an' loved soa weel
Be loved noa more;
For that hard heart, bird music cannot move,
Is
far too cold a dwellin'-place for love.
What aw Want.
Gie me a little humble cot,
A bit o' garden graand,
Set in some quiet an' sheltered spot,
Wi' hills an' trees all raand;
An' if besides mi hooam ther flows
A little mumuring rill,
At sings sweet music as it gooas,
Awst like it better still.
Gie me a wife 'at loves me weel,
An' childer two or three,
Wi' health to sweeten ivery meal,
An' hearts brimful o' glee.
Gie me a chonce, wi' honest toil

Mi efforts to engage,
Gie me a maister who can smile
When forkin aght mi wage.
Gie me a friend 'at aw can trust,
'An tell mi secrets to;
One tender-hearted, firm an' just,
Who sticks to what is true.
Gie me a pipe to smook at neet,
A pint o' hooam-brew'd ale,
A faithful dog 'at runs to meet
Me wi a waggin